ashes to ashes
by musicalpsychology
Summary: spoilers for pilot episode. set between pilot & wendigo. dean!fic. dean remembers the fire from the last time he walked right into a burning room.. and it hurts like hell.


He did his best to be brave.

Looking up at the fire, he'd fought to stay strong. To just get Sammy and leave, right then and there. He worked hard, he got him. He smelt that thick, bitter smell of ash and burning flesh. Of a loss of life, and a loss of hope. He held on tightly for his little brother, and never let him see how hard it was. Jessica, the one person Sammy was clinging to, the one he loved instead of his big brother, tore up memories from Dean's heart, wrenching them to the surface, only held in for mere hours.

Sam, laying on a motel room bed, eyes red and body slumped. He hadn't moved for what felt like a day, but really couldn't have been that long. It felt long. Like an eternity. Dean, struggling to cope. Watching his brother after he'd cried himself to sleep, watching the rise and fall of Sam's chest, somehow reassuring. Finally peaceful. He snuck into the bathroom, closing the door without a sound, careful of each and every move he made. It was too hard to have to have any conversation with Sam. He was distraught, and Dean, himself, was never particularly eloquent with his words. He couldn't do it. Now wasn't his time to grieve.

In the bathroom, alone, he really felt it, though. The flashback, the memory he'd suppressed for all of those years. The flames, the heat. The smell. The scream from his father, mirrored by that of his brother.. That thick, broken yell of 'no', the way the fire engulfed the room. The emergency workers, the lights, those flashes of red over the street. He remembered it all too well, and it hurt like nothing else. Twenty two years, he'd ignored it. Ignored her death. Pretended that his help, what he gave to his father, was really avenging her. That they were working for good. That they were getting somewhere.

They weren't.

It was all piling up, like it always did. He'd always had problems with emotions, with how he felt as a person. He was a psychiatrist's dream, sure to pull in the big bucks. Hell, maybe they could even write a book about that psyche of his, all tormented and twisted beyond repair. He knew that he was beyond repair. Leaning, his arms on the wall and his back arched, hunched, ready to take his nightly shower and yet unable to find the strength to even undress. Nothing was the same anymore. Not when he remembered. Drinking helped, sometimes. Hooking up with random women in motel rooms and bathrooms.. that helped too. But it would never be enough. He could never feel it enough. They didn't numb him like he knew he needed.

He made his way to the shower, needing now to cool off. To hide what he refused to believe were tears in the unsteady stream of water to flow from the grimy shower head. He wasn't going to feel this. Not now. He couldn't. It wasn't fair. Nothing was fair. It hit hard, every time he felt anything at all. When that cocky smirk was something more of a disguise, and his conscience tore right through it. Alone, the mask was always off, but he could fill the void. He could drink. Watch porn. Or he could just prolong the inevitable. Never be alone. Always a new girl. Now it was his brother. His brother was meant to make it better. He was meant to fill that void of loneliness, stop him from overthinking. Stop him from shedding the disguise he lived behind. It wasn't fair. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was meant to be better now.

It was so much worse. The water streamed down his back, his eyes brimming. A lump in his throat was the first sign of physical pain from his ordeal. It was all otherwise mental. He couldn't handle this. He couldn't let it out. With a deep, deep breath, Dean began the routine that was as old as his grief was. He pushed the memory away, buried it deep down, bottled it up. His eyes closed, he took a gulp of the shower water, spat it out onto the floor. Tried to act normally. It was over, he was forgetting again. He wouldn't deal with it. Not for a long, long time.

He stepped from the shower onto grimy tiles, digging for a towel and taking a deep inhale of steamy air. The memory was gone, pushed far back against the brick wall in the darkest depths of his mind. It was over. He'd forget. The flames would die, the smell would fade. Just like the last time.


End file.
